


Boys Will Be Boys

by Maraceles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maraceles/pseuds/Maraceles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever else may be between them, Dean is the elder brother here.  He’s got certain <i>rights</i>, damn it, and he isn’t letting Sam forget it.</p><p>(originally posted to lj)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys Will Be Boys

Most of the time, Sam gets that _look_ on his face, that studious, serious, and _stubborn_ look. He’ll tip Dean over, hold him down, and fuck him into next week. Sometimes Sam will bend him over the table, or he’ll use his large body to manhandle Dean against the wall. More often than not, he will just lay all over Dean like a huge, horny house-cat. Whatever the case, when Sam pushes, Dean will spread for him. It’s a rule, a law of nature.

Sam is currently rubbing his shoulder, staring up at Dean with wounded, put-upon eyes. Dean isn’t falling for the look--the little bastard started it, and whatever else may be between them, Dean is the elder brother here. He’s got certain _rights_ , damn it, and he isn’t letting Sam forget it.

Punch-bug, his _ass_.

“I saw it fair and square,” Sam mutters under his breath, his eyes darting to look at Dean.

Dean smiles arrogantly, knowing it will drive his brother crazy. “Wrong game, bitch."

Sam's scowl deepens.

“You know how this plays out,” Dean tells him pointedly. It's something he's got to do time and again: Lay down the law. “Start something and _I’ll_ finish it.”

Sam's whole body twitches--Dean will swear to it. He can just _see_ every little fastidious instinct in Sam _screaming_ with the injustice of it all. “You know, Dean,” Sam finally growls, “if you weren’t driving right now…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean cuts him off. "Big talk from the little pussy.”

It gets him Sam’s angry face, the serious one, but it’s all little-brother look. There's none of the heat from that _other_ thing between them, and so Dean only smiles with the simple pleasure of getting a rise out of his brother. The world turns along happily, this other law of nature fulfilled.

The miles roll on. The Impala's wheels _thud-thud_ subtly over the blacktop of the highway, and Sam remains silent, his pissyness filling the car. Dean presses his lips together to keep from snickering. Instead he stares into the darkness ahead, and on a whim, he lifts his hand from the wheel--it's only a couple of seconds, but he can feel the slight list to the right. Dean pets his baby, promises her a good look-in tomorrow.

“Hey,” Dean says finally, breaking the silence. He nods his head towards the glare of a gas station up ahead of them, but Sam's lips remain shut. Dean shrugs--pouty little bitch--and lets the lights of the exit guide him forward. After a few minutes, he brings the Impala to a neat stop next to one of the pumps.

"You want anything?” he asks, getting out of the car. He ducks down to meet Sam's eyes.

His brother doesn’t look at him. Dean rolls his eyes and waits.

“Coke,” Sam says shortly, after a moment.

“Big one?”

“Yeah.”

Dean nods, doesn't bother to hide his grin. The too-bright lights of the gas station momentarily blind him as he shuffles around, but he finds the pump nozzle and puts it in place easily enough. The overpowering scent of fuel surrounds him, too sweet and somehow tasty-—he’s always liked the smell. Too much, Sammy likes to tell him, and what kind of freak liked the smell of gas, anyway?

The pump ticks at him, counting dollars and gallons; Sam continues to grumble in the passenger seat. It isn't like Sam--he'd usually get out of the car and stretch-—but it _is_ almost four in the morning. Dean knows that muzzy-headed feeling, the drowsy, intoxicated feel a person can get after hours of being rocked back and forth by wheels of the car. As a baby, Sam had been lulled to sleep by the road. He’d cry and cry, and he wouldn’t sleep until Dad drove him around in the car.

The nozzle finally clicks and the pump dings--the tank is full. Dean puts the nozzle back silently. He can't help himself: He takes a look at Sam, making sure that beyond the bitch-face, his brother is okay. Sam cuts a glance at him, an annoyed recognition. Dean shrugs back. It’s his job, just like winning at punch-bug is his job.

He eventually makes his way to the convenience store, the orange and green _7-11_ lights obnoxiously glaring down at him. Two cokes-—and fuck yeah, one of those cheesy hamburger rolls, way better than hot dogs—-and he hesitates just a moment before swiping a large bag of M &Ms. Then some Reese’s, too. Both are Sam’s favorites--Dean wonders if Sam will be in the mood for either of them. Whatever. It can't hurt. The cashier arches an eyebrow when she rings him up, and Dean just smiles cheekily back at her, not at all ashamed by his supposed gluttony.

When Dean gets back to the car, Sam doesn't seem very angry anymore. He looks up when Dean taps the candy on the Impala's roof, the sound like the fall of gravel catching his attention. Sam's eyes are now filled with resignation; it's not a look Dean likes to see. He presents Sam the candy with a hopeful, half-apologetic grin.

Sam stares at him, his mouth pinched tight. He wants to stay upset, Dean can tell. Dean only waggles his eyebrows and gives Sam everything--the Cokes, the candy, even the damn cheeseburger-dog--and then he turns around and leans back against his car, giving Sam his privacy. The kid always did need some time to get over himself, and it's not like Dean has to see Sam’s face to hear the happy little noises as he rips into the candy. Dean is perfectly content with smiling to himself, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, as Sam munches away.

So yeah, most of the time, Sam has his way with Dean in bed. He gets fed up with being treated like a kid—and Dean tries, he does, it’s the fucking apocalypse, and he gets that he needs to let go a little--and then Sam gets all bossy with him. Dean just goes with it. He even kind of likes it--Sam’s a big, powerful dude, and Dean likes to see that. Sam's _strong_ , and if it’d taken Dean a while to figure that out after the entire demon-blood fiasco, when it comes down to it, Dean's really proud of the guy. Sam’s all grown up. Sam's everything he should be.

In times like this, though, Dean is just happy to play at being big brother again. When Sam smiles at him--just like he's doing now, up into Dean's face as Dean twists around to look at him--all forgiving and the slightest bit teasing, Dean feels like maybe they’ll make it out of this okay. That maybe, just maybe, he can keep Sam safe.

Dean takes in Sam’s sleepy expression, letting his brother’s happiness wash over him. Sam’s eyes are crinkling with affection, every emotion written large on Sam’s face. When Sam wants, he can let everything he feels explode out of him, and it takes Dean’s breath away, just like it’s doing now. Happiness, mischievousness, and lust, and all of those wrapped up in the emotion Dean knows is--fuck, can he say it? He can hardly believe it sometimes, but he does believe it, can't do anything else, when Sam stares up at him like that.

Dean has seen that look on Sam's face a thousand times: He saw it when Sam was a baby and Dean tickled his feet. He saw it when they were teenagers, when the two of them threw soapy water over the Impala ("washing her") at one another. He sees it in the calm moments they have now, in those rare times when he looks at Sam and Sam looks at him, and they _get_ it, get each other. That look of Sam's, hard-won and bought dearly--he finally knows what it means. Sam is choosing to be with him. Sam will _always_ choose to be with him.

It's so much more than Dean ever thought he'd get. By some unknown but fucking awesome miracle, Sam wants Dean in every messed-up way that Dean wants him.

Anyway, when Sam looks at him like that, it’s all Dean can do to stop himself from jumping Sam right there in full view of everyone. This time is no different--Dean can feel Sam’s eyes on him, heavy-lidded and amused, as he rushes around the car. Then Dean has his baby going, and they're pulling into a side street, and the bright lights of the gas station are still visible but no longer blinding. He and Sam are both in shadow, there's a soft darkness only broken by the headlights of a few, random cars, and Sam is laughing into Dean’s mouth as Dean kisses him.

In these moments, Dean takes what he wants. It’s Sam who opens up for him.

Dean thinks he wants Sam fast, dirty, and hard. He wants to feel Sam’s long body trembling under his; he wants to hear Sam _begging_ for it. Dean climbs on top of Sam only to push him down along the front seat, and they both grunt as they slam back against it. Sam is giddy with excitement, still turned on by stupid things like sex in public places, but Dean is right there with him, breathless as he lifts Sam’s shirt over his head.

Dean tears at Sam’s belt, Sam’s boxers, his jeans. Sam lies beneath him, his large body stretched out and exposed, the fading light from the gas station playing gently over his skin. Sam is beautiful at the worst of times, but in this place, with the shadows and light dancing over him, Dean isn't sure that he’s seen anything more breathtaking in his entire fucking life. He stares down at his brother, at Sam’s strong thighs and hard dick, his shivering stomach and well-muscled chest, and as he meets Sam’s eyes, Dean thinks he’s got to be the luckiest bastard who’s ever lived.

Seriously.

Nothing is better than this.

Not a damned thing.

 _This_ is why he can’t top like Sam. Sam likes to fuck him hard, rough, and thorough, but when Dean finally has his little brother spread out beneath him, that sort of fury becomes the most distant thing in his mind. Instead Dean reaches out, his hands soft and careful, and he slides them over Sam’s skin in a simple caress. It’s no less possessive than Sam’s gestures--they both know it. But when Dean has his hands on Sam’s willing body, his heart squeezes in his chest fit to break him with the need to be gentle, to _care_ for Sam in the way he deserves.

Dean cradles his brother’s face gently. He takes Sam's mouth slowly. He teases at Sam’s lips with small licks, asking for permission, begging for entrance, and when Sam opens his mouth, Dean kisses him with all the affection, the gratefulness, that he can muster. There is that other feeling too--but Dean doesn’t like to mention it aloud. He will only remind Sam when pressed or when Sam really fucking needs to hear it, but he means it with every careful dip of his tongue into Sam’s mouth.

His brother beneath him is all surrender--Sam arches with complete trust into each of Dean's touches, his eyes open and worshipful, and it's both familiar and new, comforting and precious. Dean kisses away the gasps escaping Sam’s mouth, and he returns their shared adoration with each lick of his tongue, with every light scrape of his nails. Dean runs his hands firmly over his brother's body, and he means it as a promise: He will always give Sam what he needs.

Dean knows how to play Sam--after all this time, he knows each sensitive spot on his brother’s body, each place that will cause Sam to moan, or sigh, or buck up into Dean’s hands. Dean does it all, wanting to see Sam break apart beneath him. He needs Sam to give it up, give him _everything_ , and Sam does, his almost unnoticeable trembling turning slowly to unembarrassed writhing. Sam's desperate noises are sweet in Dean’s mouth, and Dean kisses them gently away.

The Impala's front seat is such a cramped space, but Sam's legs are already languidly spread with invitation, and before Dean knows it he's slicking his fingers with lube and reaching between them, his fingers pressing against his brother’s hole. Sam is already waiting for him, relaxed and ready, and he only shivers when finally Dean fucks him.

His every thrust is gentle, careful. Dean buries his face in Sam’s shoulder, mouths at Sam's hair, and it's all meant as simple, stupid reassurance--but Dean can't stop himself. He lets everything out, all the buried, hidden feelings. He whispers them into Sam’s ear, and Sam listens, begins to whimper almost helplessly. Sam's arms and legs wrap around Dean firmly, and his body moves into every cant of Dean’s hips, refusing to let Dean go.

It’s quiet, unhurried lovemaking. It's a slow slide of sweat-slicked skin. Dean takes Sam's mouth again--Sam’s moans are just for him. Dean doesn’t let them escape, he only follows Sam over the edge, and then there they are, collapsed together, sweaty, sated, and against all odds, _happy_. Dean pets Sam haphazardly, runs his hands over Sam's thighs, his hips, his chest. He breathes in Sam's scent. They are, everything is, exactly as it should be. This, Dean thinks, is where he's always belonged.

He looks up and meets Sam's eyes. What the hell, right? It's not like his feelings are a secret.

“Hey,” Dean says quietly.

Sam smiles up him, sleepy and satisfied. “Hey, yourself.”

Dean rubs a thumb over Sam’s leg, back and forth in a last soothing touch, and though he can't help but smile back, the words won't come. At least, not this time. Looking at Sam's face, though, it doesn't matter. What they have--it's enough.

Not long after, Dean is still smiling into the darkness. He's listening to the _thud-thud_ of his baby's wheels, and she continues to list somewhat to the right. Sam sits not-quite quietly next to him. The small sighs of his getting comfortable fill the car. Despite the atmosphere, Dean knows it's coming.

"Don't you do it," he says sternly, trying to head Sam off.

But out of the corner of his eye, he can already see Sam turning to face him. A wide and too-innocent grin is spreading across Sam's mouth, and Dean scowls and raises his right arm protectively--but he's too late. Sam's too quick.

“Motherfucker!” Dean yells as Sam moves.

The impact lands--Dean's shoulder starts smarting like a son-of-a-bitch. His arm is turning numb, his fingers are tingling, and Sam is crowing "Dead arm!" next to him, his fists triumphantly in the air. Sam's smile is huge and unrepentant, and despite everything, Dean finds himself grinning in return. He bows his head a little, trying to hide it.

But he knows Sam isn't fooled.

This is who Dean is: Hopeless and helpless in the face of Sam’s happiness. Dean will snarl and play his role eventually. He'll get around to threatening bodily injury. Through it all, though, he'll know Sam has his number--Sam always wins against him in the end. Dean guesses that, really, it’s another one of those rules.

And, come on, what can he say?

If he said that he wasn't okay with that, he'd be lying.

 

 

:::


End file.
